Storyteller by Colin & Anne Brookfield (motivational novels for students txt) 📖

of Jim by Brutus, received much acclaim in the newspapers, to the extent that Brutus was presented in public with his very own medal by the state Senator.

“Well Brutus, you are obviously the other side of the coin to your infamous namesake, who knifed his friend Julius Caesar in the Roman Senate,” remarked the Senator.

Then in a jocular fashion, he quickly backed away from the cat. “Just in case!” he said laughingly, which brought roars of laughter from everyone.

 

Preface to Part Two

The following two stories were taken from the Summerhouse manuscripts; we have included them as they were originally written.

The Summerhouse trilogy concerns a motley group of fur and feather friends. They each have special abilities that compliment one another and can all talk, but it is forbidden to allow humans to know this. Their leader is a firm but astute black cat. They solve mysteries and problems that humans cannot, and have character flaws which often generate comical situations.

The stories themselves are woven around human activities in ‘boys own’ adventure yarns, and the events take place in the 1940s, just after the Second World War.

The Friends:

Sylvester: A wise, black feline who is their chosen leader and our storyteller.

Alice: A tall and canny Irish Wolfhound.

Mme Bravatski (Mme B) A grey cat who has aspirations to be a clairvoyant. She cheats by hypnotising her ‘clients’, with a sparkling ring at the end of her paw digit.

Millie: A dippy but lovable tortoishell cat who is way past her ‘sale by date’ but nobody’s told her.

Peri: A rather autocratic Siamese cat.

Skungee: A Jack Russell – definitely full of mischief

Wilfie: A gentle natured Greyhound.

Henry: A rat with an upper class accent and full of wisdom.

Polly: A Peruvian parrot with an impish personality but, is a gossip. She is therefore useful for imparting her knowledge to the others.

 

Introduction from Sylvester:

I’m the large black cat that leads our little group of adventurers, although my main job is to keep records, because I’m the only one who can write in short-paw. For this reason, I am able to relate these stories to you.

Some of the stories such as those mentioned below, are given to me to record by the team. I write it all down in the summerhouse when we gather to discuss ideas.

So, now that you know who we all are from the above, please enjoy the stories that were written around us.

 

A Matter of Honour

The story of an Italian prisoner of war, wrongly accused of a crime by unscrupulous people.

Wiggy

Wiggy is an elderly foreign ‘gentleman of the road’, who has no memory of his previous life, but has an astounding talent.

A Matter of Honour

 

The usual flutter of excitement came from Skungee, as he tuned the wireless to the correct station for the Saturday evening story. That being completed, they all lay back watching the lit-up display on the front of the wireless and waited for the story title to be announced, but it didn’t happen; instead, the light went out. Skungee went into a frenzy of knob twiddling and switch changing, but eventually, seeing nothing was going to change, he put his nose in the air and let out a long dismal howl.

“Oh bum!” Alice exclaimed, “He’s going to have the miseries and ruin everybody’s evening.”

“What’s this racket about?” said a small voice from the open front door.

“Well if it isn’t our long lost Henry,” piped up Millie, “back from his private adventures. Where’ve you been hiding?”

“Tell you in a minute,” he replied. “There’s a bit of a flap going on at the farm; their electricity has been cut off.”

Skungee, who had just been gathering breath for another howl, let out a loud gulp and his ears pricked up.

“Thank goodness if it’s only that. I thought my wireless had given up the ghost for good.”

“Got myself on a good thing,” began Henry, “I’m being treated like royalty by Egidio, an Italian prisoner of war at the internment camp.”

“At the WHAT?” Millie blurted out.

Henry looked around at the blank faces.

“You lot need to get out more. There’s a wide, lively world going on beyond the summerhouse that you lot seem to know nothing about. I take it that you KNOW, that the war we’ve just had for the last SIX years, has just ended – or even that we had one,” he said sarcastically. “Well, armies take prisoners and they’ve got to keep them somewhere, and just half a mile up the road is where they’ve put them all in a place called an ‘internment camp’. The Italians are in one half and the Germans in the other. They get put to work on the farms that are short of labour and, now I’m on the educational lecture tour, I’m also well up on the subject of theoretical physics. Any takers?”

Madame Bravatski’s hat, which was already arcing through the air, landed squarely on Henry, and peace returned once more as he scuttled off to a safer place.

Egidio, or Eddie as the camp guards referred to him, was alerted by a nudge on the arm and a familiar squeak from his newly acquired little friend.

“There you are at last Ratty!” Henry wiggled his whiskers in appreciation; he’d really fallen on his little feet in this place. Eddie kept him well fed and had allocated a nice big pocket in his coat, for whenever Henry felt like a free trip, and in a rural place littered with hungry cats, dogs and stoats, it seemed the safest means of conveyance for a smart rat.

Henry had also taken stock of the educational books in the English language, lying on Eddie’s bunk, so it seemed his benefactor was the studious kind.

There was also the matter of Eddie’s wartime memoirs. This was quite a hefty tome that Henry was planning to read at given opportunities. A few days earlier he had noticed a folded sheet of paper tucked inside the book. There was a full page picture of the Union Jack on one side and scrawled writing on the other. It was written in a very jerky hand, and signed ‘Charlie Phillips’. It became clear to Henry, that this was some sort of last testamentary account by a British soldier on a far away battlefield. It read:

The desert push towards El Alamein by the German and Italian armoured divisions, had so surprised our forces that it caused our brigade an immediate fall-back to a more defendable position. However, some of us were not so lucky, having been positioned here and there, forward of the front line as observers. For us, there was no chance of withdrawal; we were trapped the moment the unannounced enemy artillery barrage erupted around us.

I’m praying for all I’m worth (and cursing), for not having dug my foxhole deeper. Its upper edges are constantly being splattered with shrapnel. This ordinance seems to arrive in salvos, and their airborne whining fills the skies with prophesying anthems of death.

These are the thoughts dominating my mind amidst all this convulsing earth and ear-shattering noise. In this last few seconds of silence between salvos, I was startled by a large white object flashing over me, and in sitting up, I saw a magnificent white horse leaving the cordite clouds and carnage as fast as its legs could carry it.

I’ve turned to see where the horse had gone, and can see that its former rider had fallen and lay inert on the ground nearby. He seems to be an Arab and one of high status, judging by his finery – and he’s moving slightly.

The next salvo is imminent. What shall I do? Perhaps I could get to that deep shell crater and maybe give the other chap a chance as well.

There was also another piece of paper enclosed with Charlie’s note, bearing someone else’s handwriting.

"My name is Fahd, and I enclose this note with the sheet of paper clutched in the hand of the gallant soldier by the side of me. He could have escaped, had he not lost time pulling me to safety during the last fusillade of shells. Instead, he now lies mortally wounded at my side, drifting in and out of consciousness. These notes must be conveyed to the soldier’s wife or family."

It had finished there and Henry was rather miffed. After all, new stories were always retold to the others back at the summerhouse, but not without a beginning, middle and an end.

Several days slipped by before Henry found an opportunity alone, to read Eddie’s journal which fortunately, and probably for some good reason, he had recorded in English. This was a hit and miss business across several weeks; a few pages one day and a few on another. During that time, he had read 24 chapters of the Italian’s account of his own war experiences. However, it was chapter 25 that proved to be a most welcome surprise, because it took over from the point where Charlie Phillips’ battlefield notations had finished and Eddie’s side of the story picked up from that point.

Our Italian and German artillery had finally driven the British back and we moved forwards in occupation. It was there, amongst the devastated landscape that I met a side of myself that would change me forever.

I had slipped accidentally into a deep shell crater where I found a dying British soldier. He was so young, I was mortified, I had never seen death that close before. I could feel a connection with this poor boy and knew his going, would rip something from my own soul.

He whispered that his name was Charlie Phillips. He told me that a friendly Arab had spent some time with him and had placed a letter in his pocket. As I prepared to move on, he implored me to see that his letters and documents got to the right place, which I promised to do.

Several months of battle followed, and then our fortunes changed. Many of us were captured by the British and interned. I had managed to conceal the personal paperwork that had belonged to Charlie Phillips, and about whom I now felt I had a mission. The British military seemed impressed that an enemy soldier had taken the care and consideration for one of their own soldiers, by returning the man’s